


The Theft

by SigiR



Category: None - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 11:02:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6751372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SigiR/pseuds/SigiR





	The Theft

Remick eased the garden gate open, carefully lessening the damned rusty squeak it was wont to give off. Fiddling with the busted latch had been some work, especially with his cumbersome right glove. Should've just hopped over the fence, come to think of it. He decided to leave the gate open, just in case.   
Remick padded silently on the garden path. Creeping through the grass would make too much rustling, and that's just not optimal. The half-moon crept across the crooked brim of the house's roof, threatening to light him up. Nothing for it, though. Can't stop the moon. He darted into the long grass, just in case.   
It was a big garden. Must've been quite nice, once. Flowers wilted on bare, mossy earth and the grass was long, hard, and brown. It crunched to the touch. Thick overgrown bushes lined the fence. A withered tree hunched low to the ground, thin leaves already crackling brown. It smelt like death. The wind hid his sounds, and he slithered through the grass up to the front porch. Slowly, just in case.  
He slipped from the undergrowth and scurried onto the wooden floor of the porch. He'd been watching the place for a good few days now. Old man kept to the indoors, suggesting plenty of food and water inside. The general unkempt appearance of it all was a disguise, to fool any watchers into thinking it abandoned. Clever. He began to sidle up to the door, boots stepping quiet. He reached for the knob, and turned it.

Or he would have, if the door hadn't opened from the other side.

“Hoo goes thar?!” hollered an old voice, raspy with age and sickness.  
The voice shone a bright light directly into his eyes, and he heard the click of the action of a gun.  
Remick slowly walked backwards, one hand up in the air while another covered his eyes.  
“Got a gun there, old man?”  
“Aye, that I do.”  
“So you'd murder us both, eh?”  
“Protectin' what's me 'n' mine ain't murder, boy. 'N' if'n it does bring some heat, well, I got enough shells for all o' y'.”   
His eyes were starting to adjust. A sagged figure, skin sallow and yellowing. Whites of his sunken eyes were yellow too. Not a well figure, even for these times. Wisps of hair crowned his frog-like face like mist.  
“You don't want to fire that gun. I'll just be going.”  
“Uh-uh, not so fast. Times you got some justice to y'.”  
With that, the old man twitched. Not much, but enough.   
Remick darted sideways and the old man raised the shotgun to his shoulder, and unloaded on air.

Time slowed. Remik dashed forward.  
“Oh, shit!” croaked the old man, his fingers fumbling with the shotgun's reloading. He clicked the barrel shut.  
Remick reached him.  
The old man raised the butt of his shotgun.  
Remick stabbed him twice times with his glove. Once in the upper ribs, the long blades slipping between the bones. Probably a lung hit. The next was to his gut, and that brought the old man to his knees.   
You'd think there'd be no fight from him at that point, but there was.  
He discharged the shotgun at point blank range into Remick's chest.  
He would've cursed, but there was no breath in his lungs as he shot backwards.

He landed hard on his back in the grass. He lay there, winded, for a while, mouth gulping like a fish. Finally he recovered, and opened his jacket to assess the damage. His life-plate was still relatively intact, albeit now with several deep dents and a few cracks. It wouldn't take much more. He closed up and shakily got to his knees, peering over the long brown stalks. The old man was still kneeling, head tilting forward slightly.   
He looked pretty dead now.  
No time for pondering the old man's circumstance. Those two shots were not good news. Too much noise for these parts.  
Remick hastily stood up and rushed inside the old man's shack. Peeling wallpaper, the smell of mould, rickety furniture and a ragged kitchen greeted him. He quickly scanned the cupboards for anything useful and pocketed most, or stuffed them in his pack.  
Maybe there'd be something left after they'd gone.   
He peered around the doorway. Nothing yet. He snuck out, low to the ground, and snatched up the old man's shotgun. He quickly pawed at the body, holding his gags back. Grabbed a few shells, some other little things. Then he quickly scurried off into the grass.

The sound of wheels, big thick engines and many feet. A big light lit up the old man's shack. Remick crawled through the grass as fast and as quietly as possible, holding back his harsh panicked breathing.  
“Waht's 'iss?” came a grunt from behind.  
“Wahss it look loik, you mong? A dead bloke.”  
“Never seen 'im before.” came another.  
Remick reached the bushes and slithered into them, slowly.  
“Check his shit, en. No point stickin' round.”  
The gurgle of the engine subsided. Big footsteps sounded up the path, sounding metal and leather and death. Remick peeked through some branches, saw a man's silhouette in the moonlight. It was distorted and warped by the thick ragged armour it wore.   
“Get.” He ordered.  
The littler men scattered away. The giant knelt by the corpse.  
Remick snuck away.


End file.
